Splinter Cell: Inside
by Rashal
Summary: Third Echelon faces the worst kind of threat: one from within. Reposted both because there's a Splinter Cell section now, and that I actually plan on updating regularly this time. Sorry dudes.
1. Spying Where You Shouldn't

Splinter Cell: Inside

Disclaimer - I have the games (and wish I had Sam), but Tom Clancy and Ubisoft have the monopoly here.

AN – I've made Sarah roughly five billion years younger than she's supposed to be (well, maybe not that young), I'm sure I've taken broad liberties with Grim's character, and I still can't write for crap. Any helpful criticism to dredge me up from mediocrity is in sore need. To the reviewers of the past, I love ya. Just a few changes have been made (mostly Coen's name and some other Chaos Theory added information), and you can actually expect regular updates. To everyone else, please enjoy. And I love reviews. All reviews, be they flames or praise. Feed the Tom Clancy created muse!

This whole mess should take place before Chaos Theory and after Pandora Tomorrow.

* * *

"He's going to kill you."

I snorted, eyes focused solely on the screen of my laptop. "Only if he finds out."

We were in the main NSA computer office: "Grim's Lair of Evil", as Brunton had so eloquently dubbed it. Usually, I use the countless gigs of RAM, the world's fastest high speed internet, and my own—dare I say—impressive hacking talents for my job, which usually consists of helping a grumpy old man hide in the dark so he could save the free world.

This was a special exception.

This wasn't for work, but it involved "borrowing" (read: stealing) a few things from work, which was why I was being a little extra careful. My beautiful three flat panel LCD screens were not circled around me in their comforting embrace as per the usual, and I wasn't using the main server today either, using some clever key dancing and a much modified wireless adapter to mooch off the NSA database without being logged. The laptop I was using for this was a temporary as well. As soon as I finished, the whole thing was being completely wiped. Hell, I might even burn it, just to be sure. You can never be too careful in this line of work.

"I doubt you'll be able to hide it from Lambert for long," she said. "And don't you think Sam would get a little suspicious if we start cracking up every time we see him?" Coen was nervous, more than she needed to be, and it made me a little indignant. I was careful.

"True." I swiped at a stray hair, pushed my glasses further up the bridge of my nose, and smiled. "But aren't you dying to see?"

Fray smiled too, rather evilly—but it faded just as quickly as it appeared. "He'll find out," she said stubbornly.

I snorted again. God, I'm so feminine. "He might, he might not. In any case, I have to be sure _you_ won't leak it to anybody."

Coen held up her right hand, her expression mockingly grim. "I solemnly swear," she slowly recited in a completely serious tone, "never to tell anyone where their tax dollars really go."

It's moments like that that remind me of how great Coen is. She's got a sense of humor up there with the best of them.

"Good," I told her, grinning. I downed a portion of my bottle of Pepsi and decided to make conversation until the hacking program did its job. "I didn't think that Sarah was that old."

"She's…fourteen, I think," Fray answered. I offered the soda to her, but she waved it away. "I'm on a diet."

"You?" I took another swig from the bottle just to spite her. "Why are _you_ dieting? You weigh like forty pounds."

She laughed. "I don't weigh forty pounds. But I gained ten in a _month_." She frowned and looked at her perfectly flat stomach. It didn't _look_ like she gained ten pounds.

"Work is causing stress that causes wanton devouring?"

Fray rolled her eyes. "Did I ever tell you about the time I almost caused five accidents _and_ almost killed ten people in less than thirty seconds? I ate a half gallon of Ben & Jerry's after that."

"I wonder if Sam's gained any weight. Lord knows if _you're_ stressed…"

Coen giggled. "He wouldn't be able to fit in the suit."

There was something ridiculously funny about the mental image of Fisher straining to put on his SIGNT suit. I giggled too, before we were interrupted by the cheery "ding!" of the hacking program.

"All right, Fray. This is it."

Coen eagerly moved closer to the screen and watched.

The image was colorless and a bit fuzzy, as was typical of the cheap security cameras purchased by the various Shop-Rite clones. Nevertheless, it was very easy to pick out our target. Line four, third from the right, second in line. Unmistakable for anyone else, but I pointed him out to Coen just the same.

Sam Fisher. The man who had saved countless American lives. When he felt like it.

The first I saw of Fisher, Samuel J. was his extremely impressive Career Service Vita from the US Navy SEALS and his five zillion volunteered black ops. I had, however, been doubtful of his ability when he stepped into Third Echelon training on that day not too long ago, despite Lambert's assertions that he was the best. Fisher hadn't been out in the field in years, and he was…well…old.

I had been gravely mistaken. And to this day, Lambert never makes me forget it. Sam was older, yes, but he was wiser, and he was quiet and smart. The Georgian information crisis and the Indonesian incident only furthered my already high opinion of him. He took to the dark like a duck to water. Or something. I'm bad with metaphors.

Despite having worked with the man for nearly four years, I knew next to nothing about his personal life. I was willing to bet Fray knew much more than I did. All I knew for sure was that he had a daughter, Sarah, and I was pretty sure little girls didn't magically appear from thin air. But his history file was always blocked, always deleted or missing wherever I turned. Whenever I thought I found the complete thing, it slipped through my fingers like a shadow, just shy of my grasp. But everyone's file was like that. There was something very hush-hush about our personal lives. I suppose that's part of how the NSA keeps us all greased—the less we know about each other, the easier we get along.

Sam was now at the front of the line, glowering at the timidly smiling cashier. The moment had arrived. Coen and I watched with bated breath, as though the very cornerstone of society hung on Sam Fisher in a supermarket line.

He dumped the package on the checkout desk as though it was radioactive material and looked away. The obviously slightly frightened cashier took out the parcel within it. Despite the general blurriness of the picture quality, there was no mistaking what he was purchasing.

Sam Fisher, esteemed Navy SEAL, deadly Splinter Cell, and all around badass—was buying tampons.


	2. Life, Work, and the Road of the Truth

Splinter Cell: Inside

Disclaimer – Scary bald incarcerated Sam in the upcoming game disturbs me. As does his new angst. But I do not own him.

AN – Again, to the old faithful, no real changes other than corrections due to Chaos Theory (which, surprisingly, contained a lot of Grim background information).

* * *

My name is Anna Cassidy Grìmsdottìer. Sometimes Ann, sometimes Grim, sometimes "Grimmy", but if Brunton calls me that again I'm punching out his teeth. I've worked with Third Echelon ever since its inception, attracting the attention of Colonel Irving Lambert after he had discovered that I had an innate knack for finding out almost anything about anyone via a good internet connection and a few hundred dollars payment. Now I get both on a regular basis, as well as one of the highest security clearances a civvie can get. It's worth it just for the looks a major gives you when he sees you have higher clearance than he does.

I don't really have much of an interesting life: I was born, I went to school, then college, then dropped out and ended up desperate for a job. Found the Navy, worked for the Navy, and then transferred to the most top secret agency this side of the NSA: Second Echelon. I fought back and forth with the guys there about the operations (they believed that everything could get done with satellites imagery and radio/e-mail interception with filtering alone. They are idiots), then Lambert came with a new deal—Third Echelon (the government is big on making sure things are named like this. It makes sure no one has to think too hard). Then I found out that my emphasis on the "human element"—which at the time simply meant making sure the damn computer isn't screwing up by having someone monitor it—meant that we were getting a field operative. Then I saved America a few times. Well, I _indirectly_ saved America. I didn't actually _do_ anything other than sit on my butt and type to Sam and sometimes hack into power grids and cause strategically placed blackouts. But I suppose that can make all the difference.

Third Echelon's research team, led by me, is based deep within the NSA building. We scour the world for potential incidents, and if we find something, we label it, check with other agencies and, if necessary, call Sam into work. The process usually results in a "dead" day—everybody ends up playing Solitaire until their shift is over. Or it results in a "holy shit" day—there are five zillion crises or one _really_ big one that would make a five star general wet his pants, and one lucky individual (alwaysme)gets to call Sam _and_ Lambert at two in the morning. The Georgian information crisis (after the blackout) and the Indonesian incident (when we found out about the smallpox. God. That was scary) were two of a few "holy shit" days. The last result is a warning day; someone logs a possible potential incident and we actually talk about it with the jerks at the CIA before we take any action. "Holy shit" days usually blossom from warning days, a fact everyone I work with is painfully aware of.

My personal schedule works out something like this: five AM, I enter the building. I say a gruff "hi" to everyone currently not sleeping, and then drink roughly a gallon of coffee.

Still groggy, I sit down at my station before Brunton bounds in like a happy puppy. I proceed to attempt to pay attention to whatever Brunton is trying to tell me about the CIA or whom is currently dating whom or the winner of Third Echelon's current pool on Lambert's favorite color. I usually fail to stay alert and end up nodding my head until he shuts up. Brunton then leaps merrily away to go find someone else to pester—there is much rejoicing—and I sit on the computer for two hours looking for national security threats. Coen sometimes comes in to say hello if she's been around town for maintenance checks on the _Osprey_ or the various vans she uses. Lambert comes in at eight, greets everyone, and sits in his office down the hall. I hate him for quite a few moments for sleeping longer than I do, and then continue to monitor Earth for any problems. I take my several one-hour breaks whenever I feel like eating. At two PM I check over everything with everyone who's working at the time, assign a new leader of the team, tell Lambert my shift is over and then leave. I go home, watch a little television (usually football or the news), and then sleep. Change entrance time to five PM and leave time to two AM when I switch to my night shift. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Of course, sometimes it can quickly turn into a "haven't slept, eaten, or bathed in forty-eight hours, and everyone in America is about to die" sort of schedule. During that schedule, I receive a few healthy bonuses for my hard work that I can spend if the American dollar continues to exist. I also I get to watch Sam sleep while I desperately try to prep a file when I can barely see the keys through my blurry, sleepless eyes. I watch this rare spectacle on the _Osprey_ via his onboards, where I get to scream in his ear through the cochlear implant if any hostiles approach his location. And sometimes I end up getting so stressed I throw up. Fun.

Very, very rarely, usually as rewards for the previously mention scenario, I receive a day off. Days off are spent sleeping 'til noon, shopping with Coen or a friend I haven't been able to talk to in years, and eating out and seeing a movie. My own little version of paradise.

This, sadly, was not a day off.

It was three twenty-eight, AM, eastern standard time. There were six people working tonight's shift, a relatively large number. I was trying to play a solitaire game and pay attention to world events at the same times, before Keller hesitantly tapped me on the shoulder and met my bemused expression with worried eyes.

"I think I have something," he told me. The others in the back became suddenly and completely alert.

"Show me."

He did. I scanned the printed page hurriedly. The President's future trip to Brazil….and worrisome but detail-lacking chatter from a South American guerilla group.

I sighed. "Do we have a location?"

Keller nodded. "We traced it to somewhere near Huánuco. The CIA should have more info."

"Great." Now I also needed to call Brunton. "Everybody, start digging."

And they did. I triple encrypted the line and picked up the phone. I dialed Lambert's secure line. His wife picked it up and was remarkably civil for this time of night.

"Hi Mrs. Lambert, sorry to wake you. Can I talk to your husband?"

The transition was quick. I imagine Lambert snatched the phone away so fast it left marks.

"Grim?"

"We have a possible situation." I flipped through Keller's find. "A guerilla group, _Camino de la Verdad_, some chatter that makes definite reference to Bowers and his trip."

"Any specifics?"

"Of course not. Am I getting Fisher?"

"Wake him up. I'll be there soon."

I called Coen's line. Some other woman who wasn't Coen picked up the phone.

"Hello?" Her voice was hoarse.

"Hi. I need to speak with Frances Coen, please. Immediately."

Then there was some rustling and Lex spoke into the receiver.

"Anna?"

"We have work," I told her. "You, me, and Fisher get to go Huánuco, Peru ASAP."

She murmured something to the other woman that I didn't quite catch, and then she informed me she'd be ready.

Brunton didn't pick up until the phone rang seven times. He apologized, nearly spontaneously combusted on the damn _phone_, and hung up without so much as a goodbye. Crazy kid…

Then I had dial a passcode and the number of Third Echelon's top operative. Sam was buried under more security than anyone else. Part of the reason for that was because he would be the easiest to identify, either by picture, voice, or fingerprint.

The phone didn't even finish ringing once.

"Lambert?"

"Grim. You have work today, Sam."


End file.
